


What A Night

by 50sNettle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Crush, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Prom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-14 16:53:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/50sNettle/pseuds/50sNettle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And, so, here they are, going to prom together. Well, not *together* together, but not all of John’s brain seems to be able to cope with that concept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A plot bunny that came from watching little baby Sherlock from the unaired pilot and listening to “A Night To Remember” (Yes, the one from High School Musical 3). Enjoy.
> 
> DISCLAIMER. I own nothing.

It isn’t a date. It’s really really not.

No matter how many times John tells himself that, however, it doesn’t stop the butterflies knocking about in his stomach as he sits in the back of Lestrade’s ancient, beaten-up car, listening to his and Molly’s idle chatter from the front seat, as they head through the neighbourhood towards the Holmes household.

It’s because of Mary that John’s even here. Neither he or Sherlock had been anything close to eager about going to their high school prom, and certainly not with each other - romantically or otherwise, whatever John’s personal feelings might be - but Mary had been insistent, saying that she wasn’t going to celebrate the end of GCSE exams without them, which had led Sherlock to the conclusion that it was simply more practical for them to go together, since it had already been established that Lestrade was going with Molly and would be available to give them a lift.

And, so, here they are, going to prom together. Well, not *together* together, but not all of John’s brain seems to be able to cope with that concept.

“Alright.” Lestrade pulls to a stop in the middle of the road, in front of one of the old town houses that line the road. “We’re here. Go get ‘im, and then we can make a move.”

Molly leans over the seat and gives John a sympathetic smile. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” John mutters, getting out of the car and letting the door swing shut behind him. He’d considered, briefly, on the way here, asking Lestrade to stop off somewhere so that he could buy flowers, but he’d dismissed that idea almost immediately, on the grounds that Sherlock would not appreciate them in the spirit that they were intended. Now that he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, he wishes that he’d given the idea more merit.

The older Holmes brother answers the door before he even has the chance to knock.

“Evening, John.”

“Hi.” John opts for putting his hands into his pockets.

“Who is it, Mikey?” Comes a shout from inside the house.

“It’s *Mycroft*.” Mycroft yells over his shoulder in reply. “And John’s here.” He steps back slightly, opening the door to allow the shorter guy to come inside.

Mrs Holmes appears in the doorway of one of the rooms leading off from the hallway, a beaming smile on her face at the sight of the arrival.

“John!” She hurries over to embrace him. “You look lovely, dear.”

“Thank you,” he replies earnestly.

She pats his shoulder, before calling over her shoulder towards the room that she’s just come out of. “Sherlock, honey, John’s here!”

Mr Holmes also materialises in the doorway - from where John is standing, with the door open, he can hear Sherlock moving around in the room too, muttering to himself.

“Hello, John,” he says, narrowing his eyes slightly, the way a father would typically look at their child’s prom date, as if trying to judge whether or not John has turned into some kind of axe-wielding murderer since the last time he laid eyes on him.

Mrs Holmes gives her husband a reprimanding look, before smiling at John again. Mycroft has retreated to the top of the stairs during the short conversation, he notices, hovering on the landing and watching the scene below him like some kind of grumpy gargoyle.

“Alright -” John inclines his head towards the door, just as Sherlock walks through it, out into the hallway, sighing over the great burden that is attending the high school prom. “- let’s get this over with, I suppose.”

From the amused expression on Mrs Holmes’ face, John must resemble a goldfish right now. Sherlock has always looked good in a suit, but now, the night of prom, standing in the Holmes’ hallway, everything just seems to look a million times better. John’s fairly sure that any chance of rational thought has just gone sailing out of the front door behind him.

“I, er -” He clears his throat. “You, er , you look - you look...great, uh, mate.” He gives Sherlock a pat on the shoulder, trying to ignore the knowing smirk coming from Mycroft’s direction.

“He’s right, you know.” Mrs Holmes straightens her son’s tie, ignoring his protests. “You do look great. Very handsome.”

There’s the sound of snickering from the top of the stairs. Sherlock rolls his eyes in fond exasperation. “Mummy.” He inclines his head towards John. “Should we be off?”

“Um -” John begins, not sure if trying to form sentences right now is wise.

“Wait - we need to get a picture first!” Mrs Holmes gestures for her husband to fetch the camera, returning a moment later, whilst Sherlock mutters something about his parents having a whole household of photographs of him and his brother, and why on *earth* do they need anymore, because it’s not like anyone is going to forget what he looks like in the near future. John simply keeps his mouth shut - the safest thing to do right now - and tries his very hardest not to keep staring at his friend in his suit, pretty sure that he’s not smiling in any of the pictures that Mrs Holmes is taking with the amount of effort he’s putting into this not staring.

She smiles at the pair of them when she’s got enough pictures to be satisfied. “Now, go on, both of you. Have a good time. Behave yourselves.”

“I’m sure it’ll be *thrilling*,” Sherlock replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm, but he pecks her on the cheek in goodbye before he opens the door and ushers John out.

“Goodbye, John,” Mycroft calls from his perch, evidently trying to hold back laughter.

“Mycroft,” John returns, resisting the urge to childishly stick his tongue out at the elder Holmes brother.

“So,” Sherlock says, once they’re safely outside, and walking down the gravel path towards Lestrade’s car. “Are you ready to have a 'good time'?”

“In all honesty?” John replies. He’s probably already failed at the not-looking thing at least three times since they stepped outside. It’s going to be a long night, that’s for sure. “No.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More awkward prom shenanigans with the teenage Sherlock and John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than the last one, but people wanted more prom-ness, and so here it is :) I hope it doesn't disappoint. 
> 
> Written whilst listening to Lenka's "Knock Knock", because it's so Johnlock-y ;)

“Are you not dancin’, then?” Lestrade raises an eyebrow, as he takes a sip of his drink, and uses his free arm to lean up against the wall.

“Uh -” John raises an eyebrow, inclining his head towards the gathered party of his fellow classmates, clustered under the glow of the strings of blue and white fairy lights that have been hung from the ceiling, swaying and jumping in time to the music. “No, not really.”

They’ve been here an hour, maybe even less than that, and he already wants to leave. He’s barely spoken to anyone since the four of them arrived; Mary had ambushed him and Sherlock, pulling them into a group hug, as soon as they stepped through the door, but she’d soon disappeared with her new boyfriend - last John saw them, they were nestled in a corner and swaying as if waltzing, no matter what song was playing - and hasn’t spoken to him since, meaning that he’s been skulking against the back wall for the majority of the event so far. 

God knows where his own date - not a real date, the rational part of his brain adds - has gone. Sherlock had stuck to his side for the first five minutes, raising his eyebrow and scoffing at everything and everyone, but he had soon been intercepted by Jim and Irene and become sidetracked - something about bees? John hadn’t heard most of that conversation.

And so here he is. Stuck at prom, only an hour in, and without the silver lining of being able to freely stare at Sherlock in his suit from a safe distance.

Great.

Lestrade barks out a laugh. “You can’t just hide out here for the next four hours, John.”

“Four hours?”

“Well -” He checks his watch. “Three hours and fifty five minutes.”

John sighs heavily. “Wonderful.”

“Look, if you don’t want to be bored, why don’t you find someone to dance with or somethin’?” Lestrade gestures to the room at large. “There’s plenty o’ people here that would be itching for a dance with you.”

“I doubt that.”

“I’m serious! What about Sarah?” He nods across the dancefloor, to where Molly is inaudibly chatting with another brunette. “She’s nice.”

John follows the other guy’s gaze. Come to think of it, he does vaguely recognise Sarah from one of his subjects - French, perhaps?

“Yeah,” he says in reply to Lestrade. “She’s pretty.”

“Why don’t you get over there, then?” Lestrade waits for a moment, before rolling his eyes at John’s lack of response. “Mate - if you’re really waitin’ for Mr Bees Need A Certain Temperature In Order To Be Perfectly Regulated, you’ll be waiting a while.”

“I’m not,” John says, but he can tell that Lestrade knows that he’s lying. He leans his weight against the wall, and drags a hand down the length of his face. “I just don’t really feel like getting in the middle of the mob right now.”

Lestrade snorts. “Take it that means that you’re not coming to the after-prom party, then?”

“God no. Who the hell thought that was a good idea?”

“Irene. Her and Moriarty are calling it a joint effort, since his folks are away.” 

“Are you going?”

“Depends.” Lestrade shrugs as he speaks. “If Molly wants to, then, yeah, sure, why not? Gotta seize the moment, right?”

“Guess so.” John sends another glance in Molly’s direction. “I think you’d better get over there before she thinks you’ve disappeared. Can’t have you missing the slow dance, can we?”

Lestrade rolls his eyes in mock exasperation, before he claps his friend on the shoulder and begins to manoeuvre his way through the crowd towards his date. Molly wraps her arms around him when he reaches her, as he whispers something in her ear and she laughs, the sound audible from John’s spot on the other side of the room.

“It appears you are having as much fun as I am.” A new voice cuts across John’s skulking; John turns his head to address the source of the interruption, only to find Sherlock holding out a glass of punch in his direction.

“Thanks.” He takes the drink and takes a long gulp, before raising an eyebrow at his best friend, thankfully succeeding in his not-staring venture this time. “Where have you been whilst I’ve been having all of this fun?”

“I’ve been *chatting*,” Sherlock replies, as if this is some new peculiar concept that he’s never come across before.

“I see.” John hides his smile behind his glass. “And, er, how was that?”

“Didn’t really care for it much. Won’t be trying it again, and certainly not with Irene.” Sherlock mimics his position, his weight leaning against the wall. “Why did we decide to come here again?”

“Not sure. I believe that decision was down to you.”

“And you let me? Shame on you, John Watson.”

John snorts at the smirk on his best friend’s face. “Yeah. Shame on me.” He exhales loudly, shaking his head, musing for a moment as the song coming from the speakers changes, morphing into something slower.

Sherlock seems to notice it too. He tilts his head slightly, John notices, as if considering something, before putting his glass down on the floor and extending a hand. “Come on.”

John blinks, a little taken aback by the sudden request. “Come on, what?”

“You’re not going to leave me alone for the slow dance, are you?” Sherlock asks, looking innocently wounded.

John considers the preposition for roughly three seconds, before putting his glass on the floor also, and taking Sherlock’s outstretched hand.

Dammit.

“You know that I’m terrible at dancing, don’t you?” He says, as they drift into the mass of other couples; he moves his hands so that they are resting on his best friend’s shoulders, now that the two of them are facing each other.

“It would only add to everything *else* that’s terrible about this event, John,” Sherlock replies dryly, before appearing to reconsider. “Well - apart from one of the attending guests. He’s not so terrible.”

John raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to take that as a compliment, I think.”

“You should.” Sherlock smiles down at him, and John has to press his lips together to make sure that he doesn’t end up doing the goldfish re-enactment again. “You really should.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More awkward teenage crushes with John and Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Part three! I hope that people like this, I tried to throw in more cute stuff. :3. Enjoy!

It’s about fourteen or so dances later that prom officially draws to a close, and, despite his initial desire to leave, John is slightly disappointed that it’s over so quickly. Once they had shared their first dance, Sherlock had stuck by his side for the rest of the evening, narrowing his eyes and deducing every other couple that spun past them, whispering his findings in John’s ear so that no one would notice, in a way that most definitely did *not* turn John’s insides into mush as his best friend accurately predicted who had been sneaking off into the coat room to make out and who was going home together at the end of the night.

Right now, they’re waiting by the car for Lestrade and Molly (John’s still not sure how exactly Lestrade got permission to be in possession of the car, but he decides not to question it, especially after the look on Lestrade’s face when he had to reassure him for the third time that it was perfectly safe for him to be behind the wheel). Sherlock is grinning rather triumphantly as they observe the various couples and groups split and veer off in different directions, and John rolls his eyes, folding his arms across his chest in order to try and block out the breeze drifting through the night air; despite it being July, and having spent the last five hours inside a hall packed full of other bodies, there’s a chill in the air, and his thin suit jacket isn't providing much in the way of warm.

“Take that smug smile off your face,” John says playfully.

“I can’t help being right, John.” Sherlock gives him another smile, before taking another look at him. “You’re cold.”

“Not -” John begins, attempting to wave the statement away, but Sherlock has already shrugged his own jacket off and draped it around John’s shoulders. “Thanks, mate.” He tries not to do something ridiculous like nuzzle the fabric, still warm from being worn by his friend. Platonic boundaries, and all that.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow when he notices the extra layer that has appeared in John’s attire, but refrains from commenting, to the other guy’s relief. One can never tell with Lestrade, after all.

After some deliberation from their designated driver, they pile into the car and make the fifteen minute car journey to Molly’s brother’s house. It’s empty and dark when they arrive, the usual car gone from the driveway, but there’s a note left for them on the counter, as well as several boxes of pizza for them to re-heat.

“Nice of ‘im, to do that,” Lestrade comments, as they crowd in front of the television with their food, Molly putting on the first thing she sees, some romantic comedy from the early 2000s. Not that John is really watching. Now that they’re sitting in the darkened living room, with only the light of the TV screen illuminating them, he’s free to stare at Sherlock as much as he pleases. After nibbling his way through only two slices of pizza, his friend keeps his eyes on the screen, brow pulled into a slight frown, probably picking out every flaw that he can see and filing them away for future use; John has seen him do this before, on the fateful day that Mary had persuaded them that watching 'Titanic' was a good idea, only for Sherlock to denounce numerous ways in which both of the protagonists could have survived. It’s fascinating to watch - far more interesting than the actual film. In fact, John hasn’t even realised that it has finished at all, or that another film has been put on, until Molly and Lestrade announce that they’re turning in for the night, and that the guest room - the one with bunk beds, assigned to John and Sherlock - is down the hall and on the right. Sherlock barely acts like he’s heard them, despite his affirming nod; he’s far too busy trying to de-construct another film, with no intention to move, and John doesn't want to leave him alone, so it looks like he might as well get settled.

“John?” Sherlock finally murmurs, somewhere around two o’clock in the morning, causing John to stir from the light doze he's slipped in to. “Were you asleep?”

“Not really.” John stretches, wincing, muscles stiff from sitting on the floor for a long period of time. “What’s up? Can’t sleep?”

“Something like that.” Sherlock leans against the sofa, his knees pulled up to his chest, his gaze inclined towards the ceiling before it flickers to his best friend. “It’s too noisy here.”

John nods in agreement. Although he’s used to the steady sound of traffic passing by, the Holmes’ neighbourhood is relatively quiet compared to the area in which Molly’s brother lives. It’s no wonder that Sherlock would find the constant noise of cars directly outside a little distracting.

“I can’t think,” Sherlock continues, resting his chin on his clasped hands.

“Anything I can do?” John places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “I can make tea, if you want?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock agrees, after a moment of consideration, following John up from the floor and into the kitchen.

“Where are the mugs in this place?” John mutters to himself, as he flicks the switch on the kettle, and roots around in one of the various cupboards, Sherlock watching him from the doorway.

“What are you planning to do?”

This makes John turn around. “What do you mean?”

“After school,” Sherlock elaborates. “What do you want to do?”

“Oh.” John blinks, a little surprised at the statement. They've discussed this briefly before, but never in great detail. “Uh, college, I guess - then on to uni, train to be a doctor, and all that. Why? What do you want to do?”

Sherlock’s gaze drops to the floor. “I don’t really know.”

“You don’t know?” John repeats.

“No. There’s a lot I don’t really know recently.” He looks so forlorn that John just wants to abandon the tea and recently discovered mugs, run over and pull him into a hug and never let go. Instead, he offers up a smile.

“It’s okay. You’ll work it out. You always do - you’re *Sherlock Holmes*, for Christ sake. You've always got the answers.”

“That’s nice of you to say.”

“It’s true!” John insists, reaching for the kettle and pouring their tea, before scooping the mugs up in his hands. “Besides, whatever you decide to do, you've always got me, right?”

“Right.” Sherlock answers with one of his smiles, the quiet, genuine one that is saved for John and John alone, murmuring a hushed “Thanks”, as John hands him his tea and they retreat to the sofa, sitting shoulder to shoulder.

“So -” John says, after a few moments of drinking. “Enjoy prom?”

“It was not as awful as I initially thought,” Sherlock admits. “What did you think?”

“It was better than I expected,” John replies, sneaking a glance at him to judge his reaction. “Especially the dancing.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock sends him another one of those genuine smiles. “You didn't even step on my feet once.”

John chuckles, and they descend into comfortable silence once more, relaxing back on the sofa, both of them absorbed in their own thoughts. At some point, however, fatigue starts to find them; John is vaguely aware of slumping against his best friend’s side and Sherlock rescuing his half-finished cup of tea before it spills all over the carpet. He’s also aware of the warm body next to him moving, shifting in order to make him more comfortable.

He’s fairly sure that he's imagining the feeling of someone dropping a kiss on his hairline, though.

(He hopes that he isn’t).


End file.
